The Levanter (18 page)

“A traitor who was executed.”

“And why am I supposed to have helped to execute him?”

“All the comrades sign confessions. In that way all can feel safe.”

“I must say, Comrade Salah, that this confession does not make me feel safe.”

“Your confession is for the other comrades’ safety. Their confessions are for your own. Any comrade who thinks of betraying us must think again when he remembers what the cost to him will be. So do as you are told without further argument. Sign. You will not leave here alive unless you do so.”

Teresa and I signed. As we did so Issa came back into the room carrying a small wooden box which he put on the table.

Ghaled looked at our signatures, then handed the confessions to Issa. “Those comrades who cannot write their names sign only with a thumb print,” he said. Those who can write, however, give a thumb print, too. It is better so. Signatures can be denied, but not prints. Issa knows the way. Follow his instructions.”

The box contained a portable fingerprinting outfit of the kind used by the police. Issa rolled ink onto the metal plate and went to work. He obviously enjoyed giving me orders. He declared my first print insufficiently clear, inked my thumb again, grasped my forearm, and pressed the thumb onto the paper with his other hand. He did the same with Teresa.

Ghaled took the papers from him, satisfied himself that the prints were clear, and then handed me my passport. Teresa received her identity card.

That is exactly how our much-publicized “terrorist confessions” were obtained. We neither wrote nor dictated them and there is not a word of truth in the admissions they contain.

I have been asked repeatedly if we knew what we were doing when we signed, and I answer again - of course we knew, dammit! What we did
not
know was how to avoid signing. We signed under duress; we had no choice.

In the circumstances I can’t blame Teresa for misunderstanding what I did then. To her it seemed that I was merely trying, ill-advisedly and even childishly, to hit back at Ghaled in the only way I could think of on the spur of the moment.

In fact, there was nothing impulsive about my move. I wasn’t trying to hit back at Ghaled, but to needle him into hitting out at me. A man with his kind of secrets is always under pressure. Anger him suddenly by goosing him with bad news, and, nine times out of ten, he will overreact. Then, in his desire to demolish you and dispose of your bad news, he tends to forget discretion and give himself away. Of course, it was a dangerous game to play with a violent man like Ghaled, but I desperately needed information and the risk seemed worth taking.

As I put my passport back in my pocket, I said casually: “By the way, Comrade Salah, there is something that
I think you should know.”

“What?”

“You said last night that there were to be no changes made here, that there were to be no dismissals and that you would continue to use these premises as a headquarters.”

“What of it?”

“I am afraid that the matter will shortly be taken out of my hands.”

“Why? By whom? What do you mean?”

I told him about the projected switch to car-battery manufacture. I went on: “This place has been running at a loss for months. The original plan was to close it down altogether and build a new factory at Homs for the Italian operation. Later it was felt that would be a wasteful proceeding and that this works should be changed and extended to accommodate the new plant. This building, for instance, will be modified and enlarged for use as offices. The laboratory and storerooms will be accommodated in the new factory extensions which have been planned.”

“He is lying,” Issa shouted excitedly, “I work here and I know nothing of these plans.”

“Comrade Issa knows nothing about a great many things,” I retorted. “I am reporting the facts.”

“Why did you say nothing of this last night?” Ghaled asked quietly.

“Because it didn’t occur to me to do so. I accepted your orders then without question. Understandably, I think. I didn’t realize until tonight that I should have warned you that my ability to obey those orders might have a time limit.”

“What time limit? How many weeks?”

“That will be for the Minister, Dr. Hawa, to say, I am afraid.”

“But he will base his decision on your advice.”

“Unfortunately, my advice has already been given.” I drew from my pocket the copy of the memorandum I had written and handed it to him.

As he read it his mouth tightened grimly. That didn’t surprise me. The moment that what I had proposed in the memorandum was agreed to, his snug little headquarters, hard by the Der’a refugee camp where his goon squads hid out and conveniently near the Jordanian and Lebanese borders, was going to become the centre of a building site, swarming with outsiders and about as secure from his point of view as a floodlit frontier post.

He stared at me bleakly and for so long that I began to think that he had seen through my ploy.

“I thought that you should be aware of this situation,” I said to break the silence.

“Quite right, Comrade Michael. And now you will think of a way of changing it.”

“Unfortunately - ”

He held up his hand. “No excuses. You will change your advice, you will do whatever is necessary. Just understand that under no circumstances may this headquarters be disturbed in any way for the next six weeks.”

“I will do my best.”

“Of course you will. But make certain that your best succeeds.” He paused. “Have you any other surprises for me, Comrade Michael?”

“Surprises?”

He frowned. “Come now. I have already warned you once against trying to play your slippery little businessman tricks with me. What else have you to reveal?”

“Nothing, Comrade Salah. I am merely trying to be open with you, not to play tricks.”

“I hope so, for your sake. But to make quite sure, I am going to tell you what will be required of you in our forthcoming operation. In that way you will have ample time to overcome any difficulties you may foresee, or pretend to foresee, in carrying out your tasks. You will have no excuses for failure.”

“I have already said that I will do my best for you, Comrade Salah.”

“I have heard you say it. I hope you are to be believed. We shall see.” He paused. “Your company owns a motor ship, the
Euridice Howell.”

It was a statement, not a question, but I nodded. “Yes, Comrade Salah.”

“Carrying mixed cargoes regularly between five major ports of call - Famagusta, Iskenderun, Latakia, Beirut, and Alexandria. Am I right?”

Those are her most usual ports of call, yes, but she goes where the business takes her - Izmir, Brindisi, and Tripoli - Genoa and Naples sometimes.”

“Nevertheless her captain acts on your orders.”

“He acts on our agents’ orders. I don’t give the orders personally.”

“But you could do so.”

“I could instruct our agents to do so, but that would be an unusual interference on my part. There would have to be some feasible commercial justification for it. If you could tell me what sort of orders you have in mind, Comrade Salah, I would be better able to assess the possibilities.”

“Finding the commercial justification, as you call it, is your affair. I want the ship to sail from Latakia on or about July the second and to be on passage to Alexandria in the vicinity of the thirty-second parallel during the evening of the third before midnight. That is all.”

“Carrying what cargo?”

“A normal cargo. The nature of it is immaterial. She will, however, be required to take on four passengers in Latakia. During the night of the third the course and speed of the ship will, for a short time, be those dictated by the passengers.”

I shook my head. “You must know, Comrade Salah, that no ship’s master is going to take orders about the course and speed of his ship from passengers.”

“Not even if those orders are transmitted to him by the owners before sailing?”

I hesitated. “That would depend on the orders. No captain is going to hazard his ship or his crew, and on that coast no Agence Howell captain would take even the smallest risk. In particular, he would take the greatest care,” I added meaningly, “not to enter territorial waters.”

“He would not be required to enter territorial waters, nor to hazard his ship. The course would take him very slightly out of the normal shipping lanes for a period of two hours at reduced speed. Nothing more.”

I thought for a moment about the captain of the
Euridice Howell.
He was a middle-aged Greek, a dignified, highly respectable man with a plump wife and seven children. Ashore as well as afloat he was a strict disciplinarian. The prospect of having to persuade this valued employee that Ghaled’s orders about course and speed, however innocuous they might appear, were to be obeyed without question was not one that I cared to contemplate.

“Have you any special reason for using the
Euridice?
” I asked.

“Only that this is a normal passage for her to make and that she is known to make it regularly.”

“We have other ships making it all the time. You said, Comrade Salah, that finding convincing commercial Justification for this sailing at this precise time and with passengers is my affair. I must tell you that with the
Euridice Howell
it would be difficult to find convincing justification. It is really a question of how discreet we have to be. If discretion does not matter …”

“Of course it matters. There must be absolute discretion.”

“Then we should not use the
Euridice
.”

“What ship, then?”

“I would like time to think about that, Comrade Salah.” In fact, I had already thought, but in terms of amenable captains rather than suitable ships. The captain I had in mind was a swashbuckling Tunisian who had been a prosperous hashish smuggler until business rivals had shot him up in his fast motorboat off the toe of Italy. After some time on the beach he had come to work for us. Touzani was an efficient captain, but although he had kept his nose clean with us, I suspected that he was still in touch with his former associates. He wouldn’t question strange orders, I thought, whatever he might think of them privately; and he would keep his mouth shut.

“Very well,” said Ghaled, “but do not say that you have not been given sufficient time to make the necessary arrangements. As soon as you have the name of the ship you will inform me.”

“At once.”

“It must be an iron ship, you understand, and no smaller than the
Euridice Howell.
”

“She would be of about the same tonnage.”

“Progress reports on your various tasks should be made through Comrade Issa, who will also transmit further orders.”

‘’Yes, Comrade Salah.”

“Then
you may go now.”

We went. Teresa, tight-lipped, was obviously seething with various suppressed emotions. I assumed that the predominant ones would be a sense of outrage and indignation directed against Ghaled. It wasn’t until Ahmad and Musa had left us at the gate that I found that I had been mistaken. Her quarrel was with me.

“You think that he’s insane, don’t you?” she said abruptly. There was accusation in her voice.

The question disconcerted me. Until then I had thought of Ghaled as a violent and dangerous animal. It hadn’t occurred to me to think about him in terms of sanity or
insanity. I am not a psychiatrist.

I said as much.

“But you
have been treating him as if he were insane, haven’t you? Insane or stupid?”

“I certainly don’t think he’s stupid.”

“Hearing you this evening one would never have guessed it.”

“You mean I humoured him too obviously?”

“I mean that you humoured him one moment and challenged him the next. Worse, you pretended to be afraid of him and then demonstrated that you weren’t.”

“Well, I am, dammit! I
am
afraid of him.”

“You concealed the fact too well. Now, he doesn't know what to make of you. Are you to be trusted or aren’t you? That’s what he’s wondering. Your attitudes weren’t consistent.”

I sighed. “I’m not used to dealing with Ghaled. What would you have done?”

“Given in on all points. Created no obstacles. Agreed to everything.”

“And then what?”

“Run. At least we can still do that. Get out as soon as we can.”

“And hide from his killer squads?”

“He was bluffing. What could he do to us in Rome?”

“Our businesses are in the Arab countries, and he knows it. We’re also foreigners and vulnerable. There’s no bluff about that.”

“Then liquidate the businesses, Michael. Sell the ships. Your family wouldn’t care. You’d all still be rich.”

I stared at her in amazement. She made a performance of shoving the key into the ignition, but wouldn’t look at me.

“Liquidate because of Ghaled?” I demanded. “Are you serious?”

She paused before answering. “You’ve thought of it yourself,” she said. “You know you have. And not just because of Ghaled and the PAF. You don’t think the Agence Howell has a future in the Middle East. You think that it has had its day. I know, Michael. I know very well.”

“Splendid! May I know how?”

“It’s no good taking that tone with me, Michael. You must know that I, at least, am not stupid. What is all this business you are doing here but a process of liquidation? You won’t admit it, but getting out is what you really want-on your own terms, of course, and in good order-but soon. The Howells have had a good run for their money, but for them there is no longer security of tenure in this part of the world. Your mother knows it, I am quite sure.”

“Mama?” I laughed.

“Certainly. She as good as told me so once, before I became
persona non grata
. She must have told you. The best suites in five-star French hotels, plenty of bridge with good players, and remote control over the upbringing of her grandchildren-that’s her plan for the future. Monaco in winter, Evian in Summer, a Rolls-Royce and chauffeur and her Lebanese personal maid. You know it’s true, Michael.”

“And you think I share my mother’s tastes?”